I had heard that people
did things like that, but this was the first time I had ever caught
a glimpse of such carryings-on in the broad open daylight, right
before everybody. I stood there and watched them for hours,
expecting every minute to see fire fall from heaven on them and
burn up every son and daughter of Belial. But it didn't.
I seem to recollect that it was a hot day, and that, tucked away
where not a breath of air could get to them, were three fellows in
their shirtsleeves, one playing on an organ, one on a yellow
clarinet, and one on a fiddle. Every chance he could get, the
fiddler would say to the organist: "Gimme A, please," and saw away
trying to get into some sort of tune, but the catgut was never
twisted that would hold to pitch with the perspiration dribbling
down his fingers in little rills. The clarinet man looked as if
he wanted to cry, and he had to twitter his eyelids all the time to
keep the sweat from blinding him, and every once in a while, his
soggy reed would let go of a squawk that sounded like a scared
chicken. But the organ groaned on unrelentingly, and the tune
didn't matter so much as the rhythm which was kept up as regular
as a clock, whack! whack! whack! whack! And there were two or
three other fellows with badges on that went around shouting:
"Select your podners for the next quadrille! One more couple
wanted right over here!"
Dancing.
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